


Tradition

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:25:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21960121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: This morning John got dressed, showered, went downstairs for his daily cup of morning tea, and halted at the foot of the stairs.A tiny, innocent, perky sprig of mistletoe simpered at him from where it hung from the ceiling.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 128





	Tradition

This morning John got dressed, showered, went downstairs for his daily cup of morning tea, and halted at the foot of the stairs.

A tiny, innocent, perky sprig of mistletoe simpered at him from where it hung from the ceiling.

John stared at it, and then hollered, without thinking, "Sherlock!"

The pad of slippered footsteps rounded the corner. Sherlock, bright-eyed and fluffy-haired, appeared, stopping a few feet in front of John.

"What is it?" he said.

"Um," John said, casting his gaze up upon the little plant and realizing the predictament of the situation he had just placed the two of them in.

Sherlock followed his gaze, and understanding sharpened in his eyes. "Oh, yes," he said, "the mistletoe."

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock's tone. "Why did you say that like you knew about this already?"

"Because I did," Sherlock said.

"Obviously," John muttered, filling in the blank. "Mind telling me how it got up there?"

"Mrs. Hudson said it was a tradition," Sherlock said, and sniffed. "You understand my hatred for tradition, and yet, she is the one who makes my morning tea, and she has insisted on keeping it there until, as per her words, 'John comes downstairs and calls you over.'" Suddenly, he brightened. "And now that you have come downstairs and you have called me over, there is no need for that miserable plant anymore."

Abruptly, he reached towards the mistletoe and yanked it off the string. He examined it, turning it over, a slight frown floating upon his features. "Whatever tradition this upkeeps is lost on me, I must admit. Mistletoe is a horrid little thing. Prickly and irritating to the skin. I suppose you'll know all about its purpose?"

John met Sherlock's expectant gaze with trepidation, a bitten lip, and a glance away.

"Well," he started. "It is a bit strange, I guess." He paused, then bit the bullet. "The tradition is that, if two people are caught under the mistletoe, they have to—kiss." Despite all his effort, his voice hiccuped at the last word.

John had been skeptical of Sherlock's ostensible complete lack of knowledge regarding this (mistletoe? Come on), but by the way Sherlock recoiled with surprise, it seemed it was geniune.

"Why on Earth would they do that?" Sherlock said.

John shrugged. "It's tradition," he said.

"Proving my point of tradition being a glorified and desperate attempt for order in those who fear the constant change that occurs in all of life," Sherlock said, with an air of triumph.

John sighed. "Yeah," he said, looking at the crumpled plant Sherlock held in his hand and trying not to feel ridiculously, irrationally wistful—trying not to feel like his (ridiculous, irrational) hope had been squashed along with the mistletoe.

Suddenly Sherlock let out a loud, sharp intake of breath.

"Oh," he said with an air of revelation.

John looked at him. "What?"

Sherlock's eyes were darting back-and-forth the way they did when a million thoughts were hurtling through his mind in the span of milliseconds. "Nothing," he said, sounding quite distracted. "Say, John, I think Lestrade has something for me. Mind if I take a visit to Scotland Yard?"

"Of course," John said. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," Sherlock said, sounding more and more absent. "That won't be necessary."

He whirled off and disappeared around the corner, and John could hear the rustling of his coat as it was taken off the hook.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Why he had a crippling, all-consuming crush on someone like  _ that, _ he had absolutely no idea.

-+-+-+-

Thomas Traker had been found dead in his home after what Lestrade suspected was foul play. John watched as Sherlock bent over the body with his hands behind his back.

"Come take a look at this, John," he called out.

Obediently John went, crouching down to avoid banging his head on the hanging plant above the semi-prone positioned body.

"He's been dead for a day at least," John said, quickly scanning the figure. He gingerly lifted one arm, then dropped it. "No visible injuries. Maybe something internal. Molly for the postmortem?"

"Hm," Sherlock said, nondescript.

"Poor bloke," John mused. "Right before Christmas, too."

"That's it!" Sherlock shouted, and bounded to his feet.

John said, "What?"

In answer, Sherlock directed his gaze upwards and nodded at the hanging potted plant.

"Take a look at that plant, John," he said.

John stood on his tiptoes and peered into the ceramic pot. A small, green, spiky, red-berried plant twinkled back.

"Again?" he said before he could stop himself.

"Mistletoe," Sherlock said, satisfaction already bleeding into his voice. "What was that tradition again, John?"

Balefully, John once again noted the position the two of them were in. It was like God was mocking him sometimes.

"If two people are caught under the mistletoe," he repeated dutifilly nonetheless, fitfully battling the hot flush crawling up the back of his neck, "they have to kiss."

"Tradition is tradition, as they say. Do you believe in upkeeping tradition, John?" Sherlock's eyes were piercing, sleet-slate blue.

John's throat was very dry. "Well," he said carefully. "I enjoy the memories some tradition brings, but I believe in embracing change when it inevitably comes."

He looked to Sherlock to see if that was the right answer, and was met with an inscrutable mask.

"Call Molly for that postmortem," Sherlock said, and then flipped his scarf and left.

"Do  _ you _ know why he's acting weird?" John asked Thomas Traker, who didn't respond.

-+-+-+-

The snow came down in burrows of fur-like fluff, sticky and clumping in John's hair, forming a spiderweb of dew. He ran a mittened hand over his head, smoothing it down with resignation that he would have to wrestle with damp, tangled hair the next morning when he inevitably would be too tired to brush it out tonight.

Sherlock, of course, looked like he was on the front page of Vogue advocating the new hair product known as snow, smoothing it into his curls and letting bits of it clump on his lashes like frosted mascara. The glitter of the sun off the snow reflected in his pale eyes, making them seem near inhuman; etheral. Life was unfair.

They hailed a cab for Bart's, and John slid in the backseat after Sherlock, shivering as the warm air hit his chilled cheeks.

"S'bloody cold outside," he mumbled.

"Quite," Sherlock said, and then, "Why is there a mistletoe hanging from the roof?"

John's gaze shot up, and the exact sane question sashayed its way into his mind.

"Oh, god, seriously?" escaped from his lips without warning.

_ "I _ didn't put it there," the cabbie said gruffly when John caught his eyes in the rearview mirror with raised eyebrows.

"Jesus Christ," John muttered.

"You know what they say about mistletoe," Sherlock said.

"Two people have to kiss," John said tightly, resisting the urge to scream. "Can we go a little faster, please?"

-+-+-+-

Of course, there was another mistletoe hanging from above the automatic sliding doors when they walked through Bart's. Of course, John and Sherlock walked through the doors, and, subsequently, under the mistletoe, side by side. Of course, Sherlock had to point it out, gesturing with a raised eyebrow and a questioning gaze. Of course, John bit his lip and cursed the world for deciding to screw with him like this. Fuck tradition.

-+-+-+-

Sherlock sent John off to get the three of them coffee under the excuse that Molly was needed for her technical expertise and Sherlock for his observational skills, thus leaving John as the runner, or in other words the LVP—Least Valuable Person. 

When John returned holding a tray of three coffees, he paused when he heard voices by the doorway, before he could be seen from inside the morgue.

"... I just don't understand," came Sherlock's voice, laced with exasperation. "He definitely  _ wants _ to kiss me, the signs are obvious, and I've been giving him an ample, frankly  _ ridiculous _ , amount of chances, and yet he's somehow missed every single one of them, and it's just  _ incredibly _ fascinating and frustrating simultaneously, but—"

He stopped when he saw John step into the room and walking briskly towards them. "Oh, thank god you overheard," he said. "I was afraid I was going to have to tell you directly."

John stopped a few paces before Sherlock. "Sherlock Holmes," he said. "You absolute bloody idiot."

Molly's eyebrows shot through the ceiling. Sherlock seemed vaguely taken aback.

"That hadn't been the reaction I was expecting," he confessed.

"You great bleeding dimwit," John said. "Absolute thickheaded twitbrain."

"Well excuse me—"

"What did you say about tradition again?" John interrupted.

Sherlock blinked. "That it's a fragile and desperate attempt at restoring the illusion of order and control in an ever-changing landscape where nothing is constant?" he machine-gunned, and then blinked again, several times in succession. "Is that why you wouldn't kiss me?"

"Not really," John said.

He took a step closer. Sherlock's lips parted a little in surprise, and then his eyes widened.

"I put the last mistletoe underneath Thomas Traker's liver," he blurted. 

John paused. "You need to work on your pick-up lines," he said, and then kissed him anyway.

"Thomas had a history of alcoholism," Sherlock said when they parted. "His colleague got him raring drunk off spirits and then herded him underneath the mistletoe. When he went in for the kiss, she slipped a pill into his mouth that would mix with the alcohol in his system to create a fatal reaction."

"Good to know," John said with an air of resigned acceptance that romance with Sherlock would be like trying to teach a pig to crochet. "What was the motive?"

Sherlock visibly perked. "You see, Traker was a drinker  _ and _ a gambler."

As he went on, John watched as Molly bent down over the postmortem table, rummaged for a while, and then straightened holding a limp and bloodied mistletoe. She smiled brightly at John and waved it at him as Sherlock rattled on about Traker's colleague's financial issues. 

_ Happy Christmas, _ she mouthed.

John looked at Sherlock, who was now gesticulating wildly and had somehow paced halfway across the room, then looked back at Molly. He smiled, and nodded back. Happy Christmas indeed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! I typed all of this on the notes app on my phone and posting this on vacation with snail-slow wifi, so hopefully it came through and hopefully it turned out alright. To all a good night, and please leave me a comment as my Christmas present <3


End file.
